The first trip to the cemetery was for the burial. On that day, I was still very much in shock from what had happened and was doing and going wherever those around me directed. Because of this I did not have the ability, or the time, to contemplate what was happening and where I was going. Despite the fog in which I was existing when I went there after the funeral, the intense pain and utter despair that I felt while watching the coffin lower into the earth bore into me. Now I know it is one, of many, emotions and experiences that I know will never leave my mind. But because it was so sudden, I didn't have time before hand to contemplate it and just reacted while the world spun around me.
Yesterday, however, was something looming on the horizon for several months. It was something I knew was coming and had plenty of time to think about it. Time to dread its arrival, and dread it I did. I tried for the past weeks and months to live my life as normal as possible. Normalcy is something that was impossible to achieve knowing what was waiting for me. I knew I was returning to place where the scar on the earth would still be as raw as the scars in my heart and mind. As much as I sought to prepare to go back, there is really nothing that could be done. How does one prepare for what is inherently an unnatural and incorrect event? Even if it was decades later, after a long, shared life, the sight of my wife's and son's names carved indellibly into bronze and permanently affixed to the ground is something I would never be ready for. Obviously given the young ages, with so much life before them both, and so soon after we began our lives together makes such a thing exponentially harder to bear.
So the day finally arrived...
Yesterday, after precious little sleep the night before, I awoke with the immediate reality of what the day was; unlike some days when I can wake and have a few moments before the realization that Karen is gone, there was no such "grace period" on this morning. I had no appetite and craved only coffee to help push me forward. I was awash with emotions and thoughts of all sorts, so much and so disparate that I couldn't possibly begin to describe them.
The weather was perfect. Slightly overcast with the sun poking through periodically. Not too warm but also not chilly. Outside my window cyclists participating in the Transportation Alternatives New York City Century pedaled by calling out "slowing," "stopping," and "clear" as riders are taught to do whenever they participate in large road riding events. Indeed I know the routine well. Yet instead of pulling on bike shorts and a jersey to join them, I was pulling out a dark gray suit and black shirt. I know wearing black is a cliche, and Karen would likely have found the display overly morbid, but I just couldn't contemplate what to wear so black was the easiest thing to reach for at that moment.
I drove with my brother and his family to the cemetery, and being in the driver's seat lent some control to a situation over which I realize I have none. Memories of the ride the last time trickled into my mind as we drew closer. As we arrived through the cemetery's gates I felt my chest tighten and anxiety elevate perceptively. It wasn't until we pulled up at the section and saw everyone else already gathered that the full weight of the moment stuck me. I sat in the car for many minutes before mustering the strength to get out and join with everyone else around the grave.
The details of what happened next, much like those from the day of the funeral, remain shroud in my mind. What I do recall is the rabbi leading us in a touching memorial and several of Karen's friends sharing some of their personal stories. The it was time for me to remove the covering on the plaque. Having designed it, I knew what the plaque was going to look like, but as I knelt to the ground to unfasten the clothe my hands shook as overwhelming reality hit me. Seeing the design on paper only fractionally prepared me for what it would be like seeing it cast in bronze and affixed to the slab of granite. It is a beautiful but heart wrenching monument, and as I put my hand on the cold metal I felt a sense of peace come over me. Gone were the people standing around me, leaving me alone in my thoughts and memories of Karen.
I some ways the unveiling marked a kind of closure - completing part of a cycle started on November 19. Of course it change what happened, but getting through that moment revived in me a sense of strength in the knowing that I can continue to face such seemingly insurmountable events. But it also reopened some of the emotional wounds that had receded, somewhat, in the transpiring months.
Standing before the grave the feeling of absolute loss and overwhelming confusion in my life returned. I was, once more, the distraught husband and father searching desperately for meaning where there is none. As in all the days since her death, it was the strength and support of my family and friends, who literally surrounded me with their love, and nurtured me in that dark moment.
Before we left the grave, in keeping with Jewish tradition, family and friends placed a stone on the plaque. I pulled form my pocket a bag of sand from Israel and spread it over the earth in which they are buried, placed a stone on the plaque and, after spending a few more minutes in my own thoughts after everyone else left, returned to the car and drove away.
When and how often I will return to the cemetery I do not know, but that I went, faced such a powerfully painful event, and came out on the other side gives me renewed strength. Now it is time for me to go on once again, never forgetting Karen and living my life in a way that honors her memory and would make her happy. My journey continues.
Thanks to Karen's long-time friend, Michael Fishman, for the photograph.
